Forests immense cover the mountains, the gorges, valleys, reigning in stern solitude and silence, save where the fierce fire-god, serpent-like, pursues his flaming journey. There, followed by wreathing smoke columns, forward he leaps, with fiery tongue licking up acres—while the waterpools hissing in mist, join in his escort, and the wild game, with frantic swiftness, strive to escape the hot destruction of his embraces. With steady, noiseless progress, the white villages appear and disappear beside us. Rouse’s skeleton Tower looms largely in the distance;—now ’tis passed. Thy military works, and crimson flag, Isle Aux Noix,—town of St. Johns, Richelieu, La Prairie,—we pass ye all; and advancing in soft summer atmosphere, Chambly, we behold thy mountain ramparts filling the far distance. St. Lawrence, majestic river, stretched like sheet of polished steel, as far as eye can reach, we stand upon thy level shores. Rapid—wide, rushing expanse of waters, with what glorious brightness thou look’st upon thy verdant shores, covered with continuous lines of snow-white cottages, and listenest to the soft music of the religious bells of the kind-hearted, cheerful habitans—as, with rude painted cross upon their door posts, they scare away the fiend, and joyously intercommune, in honest simple neighbourhood. La Chine—we speed o’er thy surface, with race-horse swiftness, and now _Montreal_,—beautiful—most beautiful,—couched at the foot of emerald mountain, liest thou upon the river’s margin, thy spires, roofs, cupolas, glittering in the sunbeams with silver radiance, and thy grand cathedral chimes floating onwards till lost in dreamy distance. We land upon thy granite quay—measure the extended esplanade—now climb thy narrow streets and alleys. Almost we think we tread one of thy antique cities, ancient France,—alleys narrow, dark and gloomy courts, grim inhospitable walls,—in place of airy casement, gratings and chained iron portals,—military barracks,—nunneries,—prisons,—fantastic churches, and Notre Dame’s cloud-piercing towers, in huge architectural pile, looming high above all. Noisy, chattering habitans, in variegated waist-belts, and clattering sabots, rotund dark-robed priests, lank voyageurs—red-coated soldiers, and haughty officers,—jostle each other on the narrow trottoir—but, mark! the sullen, down-cast Indian, in blanket robed, with gaudy feathers and shining ornaments, his patient squaw, straight as an arrow, her piercing-eyed papoose clinging to her shoulders, silently following him, in noiseless moccasins, moves along the _kennel_. Verily, poor forest child, it hath been written, and Moslem-like, thou to thy destiny must bow—the fire-water and the Christian will it—fold thee closer in thy blanket robe, and—die. See yon Indian girl, standing at the corner—with what classic grace the blue fold drapery thrown o’er her head, descends her shoulders, as, fawn-like, she stands, avoiding the rude passer’s stare.